


The Long, Winding Road

by hiddenhibernian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Bossy Hermione Granger, F/M, Ireland, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Snarky Draco Malfoy, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22067095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenhibernian/pseuds/hiddenhibernian
Summary: “Why wouldyouoffermea lift?”The obvious explanation was unlikely, she told herself. Malfoy wasn't stupid, as such – people would notice if he was the last person seen with her before she was pushed into the Irish Sea.“I may need some assistance once we get there.” His eyes wouldn't meet hers, which bizarrely helped convinced her that his offer was earnest.Hermione has a problem. Draco offers a solution. Simple, right?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 14
Kudos: 180
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Going Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sperrywink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sperrywink/gifts).



> At long last, my fic for Sperrywink for Fandom Trumps Hate! I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for donating to such a great cause.

“Oh, brilliant.” The first thing Hermione saw as she exited the lift on Level 6 was Draco Malfoy, complete with the obligatory smirk. 

He dropped it as she approached. Maybe he had learnt something since they left Hogwarts; it had been fourteen years, after all. 

Or maybe not – he may have been reading instead. 

“What is this?” Hermione wasn't addressing Malfoy as much as the notice pinned to the Portkey Office’s door, which was firmly shut. 

_We regret to inform you that the Portkey Office has been closed due to a Doxy infestation. We expect to reopen on the 14th of August. Until then, general inquiries can be answered at Reception in the Atrium, Level 8._

“Are they joking?” 

“Unfortunately not.” Malfoy's voice was very close to her ear. He was lucky not to find himself at wand point. 

Hermione took half a step away to create a bit of distance between them. “That's three weeks away! I can't wait that long. Surely the receptionist can issue an emergency Portkey.” 

She was already halfway to the lift when she realised Malfoy was following her. 

“Going to the Atrium?” she asked pointedly. 

“I can see why they call you the cleverest witch of our generation.” One long, sleek finger pressed the button for the eighth floor, and Hermione deduced the git got his fingernails manicured. Just wait until she told Ron... 

“Excuse me, did I say something funny?” 

“Certainly not,” Hermione assured him with complete honesty. She had been thinking about Ron’s face when he was told Malfoy got his nails done, so she had barely heard what Malfoy said to her. 

They fell silent as three witches filed into the lift. One stuck her stubby nose in the air and whistled tunelessly. The second, rather rotund, took a long sip from her Muggle takeaway coffee cup. 

The third had long, dark hair and dissolved into a flurry of air kisses as soon as she spotted Malfoy. “Draco, darling, how fabulous! What are you doing here?” 

Hermione raised her eyebrows to the skies (or rather to ground level). It wasn’t as if the Ministry was inconveniently located in Outer Siberia. Most witches or wizards found themselves obliged to trudge there at least a few times a year; Crup breeding permits did not renew themselves. 

“I'm trying to arrange an International Portkey, but it's turning out to be quite difficult.”

“Oh, yes, of course! Did you _hear_ what happened to old Jenkins?” The witch was almost as tall as Malfoy. She took full advantage of it, leaning in to whisper the doubtlessly salacious details into his ear. 

Hermione had never understood what women saw in Malfoy. Well, other than being rich and as close to having a title as you could get among wizards. It was probably narrow-minded to write off the witch as a gold-digger, but it was satisfying. 

“Excuse me, you're flicking your hair in my face,” Hermione pointed out. Being a mere five foot two had its drawbacks. 

“I'm so sorry! You're not – are you two here together?” The witch turned uncertainly between Hermione and Malfoy. It was easy to see why: unconsciously, they were both standing with their back against the wall of the lift. 

Old habits died hard. 

“No,” Malfoy said at the same time as Hermione did. 

“Oh. I thought I recognised you –” the witch wittered on. 

“Doubtlessly from one of her many appearances in the _Daily Prophet_ ,” Malfoy interjected. “I'm afraid I have to say my goodbyes – toodle-oo.” He pushed his way to the front, past the dark-haired witch, who looked downcast at his abrupt departure.  
Hermione followed him, sniggering. “Toodle-oo? I thought that went out of fashion at the same time as having a valet.”

“What?” Malfoy looked perplexed, his pointy chin dropping a little. 

“Never mind, you lot probably had house-elves instead.” 

She let him push his way through the crowd in the Atrium towards the reception desk. “Quite apart from not having noticed it’s not the 18th century anymore,” she muttered, out of his hearing. 

The wizard at Reception looked young enough to have escaped from Hogwarts; his Adam’s apple bobbed uncertainly as Malfoy faced him down. 

“No International Portkeys? Anywhere?” 

“No, sir –” 

“Is the Minister aware of this?” 

“I think Kingsley has enough to worry about without personally overseeing the Portkey network,” Hermione said. “No matter how inconvenient it may be for those of us who are left stranded.”

“The Ministry is very sorry for the inconvenience, Madam –”

Malfoy didn't let him finish this time either. “This is Hermione Granger, you dolt. Don't you recognise her? Are you telling us that the Ministry is satisfied leaving a war heroine stranded, unable to travel to – to –” 

“To Dublin,” Hermione finished for him. “The Ministry doesn't owe me transport, Malfoy. And if it doesn't owe it to me, it certainly doesn't owe it to you, so let the poor bo- man do his job in peace.” She managed to herd him away from the reception desk, where a small crowd had gathered while they held up the line. 

Malfoy did not seem to have noticed, but then he probably considered most people beneath him. “You're going to Ireland, too?” 

“Well, I'm not going to Dublin, Ohio, if that's what you're asking.” Hermione sighed, but there was no help for it. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get an airline ticket. It will cost an arm and a leg at this stage, but I might get there today –” 

“Would you like to come with me?” Malfoy asked. 

“Would I like to do what?”

“Come with me. It'll only take me ten minutes to harness the winged horses – fifteen, tops. We should be in Dublin in a few hours, depending on the winds.”

Hermione finally remembered to close her mouth and focused on the most outlandish piece of his statement. It was hard to choose one. “Winged horses?” 

“We breed them.” 

“Of course you do,” she replied. No Malfoy would settle for a nice Crup. “Why would _you_ offer _me_ a ride?” 

The obvious explanation was unlikely, she told herself. Malfoy wasn't stupid, as such – people would notice if he was the last person seen with her before she was pushed into the Irish Sea. 

“I may need some assistance once we get there.” His eyes wouldn't meet hers, which bizarrely helped convinced her that his offer was earnest. 

“With what, exactly?” she asked. 

“If I have a Muggle address, could you help me find it?” 

“I suppose, as long as you have a postcode... Although I don't think they have them over there.” Hermione frowned as she considered. How difficult could it be? “I'm pretty sure I could find it, yes.”

She would come to regret that rash promise. 

Right then, standing with Malfoy in the Atrium, an island in the steady stream of busy-looking witches and wizards gently buffeting them, it seemed very simple. Pop across to Ireland, get to wherever Malfoy wanted to go, deliver her lecture –

“Actually, I have an appointment. I will help you, but I have to be in Dublin at eight o'clock.” 

To her considerable surprise, Malfoy flicked his wrist and revealed a Muggle watch. “It's half-past nine now, I reckon we have time. What sort of appointment is it?” 

She had kept it vague on purpose – maybe that had been a mistake, but she was damned if she backed down now. “Nothing that would interest you.” That was definitely true. 

“Really? It's not a date, is it?” he drawled, one eyebrow raised. Hermione suddenly remembered all the reasons she disliked him. 

“None of your business. Are we leaving, or will we waste even more time hanging around here?” 

He actually bowed, the bastard. “At your service, madam. I was just waiting for you.” 

Halfway to the transit area, she stopped walking mid-stride. The realization hit her so hard that she stopped seething, too. 

Malfoy realised a step later and turned back. “Granger?” 

“How – I assume your horses are at Malfoy Manor?” She hated how brittle her voice sounded, but it was too late to change that now. 

She had to know. She had only ever been there once, except in her dreams. 

“Yes. I see that's a problem.” To her surprise, he sounded pensive rather than triumphant. Perhaps he had changed. “It's not very easy to stop mid-flight, and the Disillusionment Charms tend to spook the horses.” 

Oh, fuck. 

Hermione had been so busy worrying about how she would get to Ireland and Malfoy's ulterior motives that she had forgotten they would be flying. 

The silence would have been awkward, had her heart not been hammering as if she were running from a dragon. She barely heard when Malfoy resumed speaking: 

“Would it be acceptable if you wait for me to get ready, and I send a house-elf to bring you directly to the stable yard? It's at the back of the house, so you won't be able to see much of the main building.” His bright grey eyes watched her expectantly; she realised that he was trying to be kind. 

Well, helpful, she amended – the reason he wanted her to come along in the first place was to further his own ends, after all. 

“I suppose it would,” she responded eventually. 

Malfoy did what could only be described as another bow, albeit more restrained, before Disapparating. Hermione decided it must be a subconscious thing – he was treating her like an ally until he could get to whatever mysterious location he was travelling to in Ireland, and therefore she got treated to his pure-blood manners. She might have been impressed, in 1845. 

As it was, imagining other obsolete courtesies he might resurrect to keep her onside kept her amused for several minutes, so it wasn't entirely wasted. 

Hermione was several pages into the paperback she lugged around everywhere for occasions like these and becoming invested in 15th-century Venetian intrigues when someone tugged at her sleeve. 

Drawing her wand had perhaps been an exaggerated reaction, she admitted when faced with a petrified house-elf. The little face looking up at her had a green-tinged complexion and very little hair. It also looked completely petrified. 

Hermione lowered her wand. 

“I'm sorry – You surprised me, and unfortunately my hand works faster than my brain sometimes. I'm very sorry,” she repeated gently, still trying to calm her beating heart. 

“'S no matter. Hopsy is sorry Mistress was scared.”

To Hermione's surprise, Hopsy patted her on the arm; she had to stand on the tip of her toes to reach. It put paid to Hermione's fears that she would start threatening to iron her ears. 

It rankled slightly, though, and Hermione tried to figure out why as Hopsy prepared to Apparate them to Malfoy Manor. 

Was it the faint hint of being patronised that raised her hackles, on high alert already due to Malfoy? Or was she losing the plot in trying to find offence when she had been at fault? 

Whatever the reason, it was clearly triggered by Malfoy. And here she was, swirling through the ether, feeling like she was compressed to the size of a walnut, on the way to his house.


	2. Born To Run

Hermione stumbled onto the uneven flagstones of the stable yard. It didn’t look anything like the Malfoy Manor that made frequent appearances in her nightmares. She could see the outline of the big house, with windows and staircases tacked on at frequent intervals and an extra floor attached in a way that reminded her of The Burrow. From this angle, it looked reassuringly plebeian.

Something whinnied very loudly, and she recalled why she was there.

Malfoy stood behind her in his shirtsleeves, holding the reins of a team of four splendid winged horses. Hooves the size of dinner plates flew in the air, and the horses were throwing their heads around like they were raring to go.

The carriage harnessed to them looked like it belonged to a Dresden figurine. It had been gilded to the point of blinding an innocent bystander if the sun hit at the wrong angle, and the covered seats had been upholstered in bright blue silk. It was everything Hermione could have dreamt of back when she was seven years old and briefly obsessed with Cinderella. 

“Ready?” Malfoy asked, gesturing to the open door.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” she sighed. At least they would be travelling in a confined space, rather than holding on for dear life as she had on the back of that dragon.

Even spending an extended period in a small space with Draco Malfoy beat that.

Leaving the ground involved a series of jerking motions, and Hermione kept her eyes firmly shut. Once the movement of the carriage stabilised, her heaving stomach settled and she risked a glance under her eyelashes.

Nothing worse than Malfoy's pale hands holding the reins greeted her, so she bravely opened her eyes completely.

The hills of Wiltshire unrolled below, mile after mile of chalk downs. There was nothing very shocking about the green and gold beneath her, or the steady pace of the winged horses bobbing gently up and down before them.

She finally believed that they were not about to be tossed to the ground several thousand feet below, or at least not at present.

Malfoy must have noticed her shoulders loosening up. “Pretty nice, isn't it? If you look left you may be able to spot the Cherhill White Horse in a little bit.”

“How long do you think it will take to get there?” They seemed to be moving at the speed of an airplane, but the manes of the horses barely fluttered - clearly magic at work. Hermione couldn't detect any charms increasing the speed of the horses, but that did not mean there weren't any.

“A few hours, tops. Bit more complicated than a Portkey, so I wouldn't normally travel such a long distance. They might flag a bit towards the end.”

It belatedly occurred to Hermione that parking a team of winged horses wasn't exactly like parking a car.

“What happens when we land?” she asked.

“I believe the normal procedure is to disembark in an orderly fashion, but I'm willing to be corrected.” The corner of his mouth was quivering.

“I see you went to the Severus Snape school of communication. What I meant was that A) It'd be a bad idea to land in, say, central Dublin, and B) I need to buy a map somewhere, so you can't just go for the most desolate spot you can find either.” 

She had to stop to breathe but ploughed on before he got a chance to interject. “Besides, we will have to find a way to get around, too, so a remote area would mean a lot of walking. Which might be a bad idea, because we don't know where our ultimate destination is. Can you just leave the horses tied somewhere, or what do you do?”

“May I speak now, or do you have another verbal explosion lined up?”

“Go ahead. Please.” She tried to make it sound sweet, but it was a losing proposition and she knew it.

“To answer your last question first, I brought a house-elf to mind the horses while we're attending to our respective errands. Topsy climbed up after you got in, so you probably didn't notice him.”

“And where is Topsy now? Did he fall off? How do you know he hasn't fallen off, with nothing to hold on to? Where is Topsy?” Her voice was getting shrill, but she didn't care.

“Right here, Miss – never you fret!” a squeaky voice announced from above. Malfoy must have got his wand out while she was busy having palpitations because the carriage roof was now transparent. Seemingly suspended in the air just above it was a smaller than usual house-elf, grinning from ear to ear.

“You're all right up there, are you?” Hermione asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Squeaky-beepy fine, Miss! Will I take the reins for a bit, Master Draco?”

“Please – I'd like to check our position.“

Hermione watched, horrified, as the reins – the only thing keeping her in the comfortable carriage rather than tumbling into the glittering sea miles beneath them – rose in the air. She didn't start breathing again until Topsy had them in a firm grip.

“Was that really necessary?” she said on the exhale. It came out a bit faint.

“Hm?” Malfoy tilted his wand this way and that, before jotting down some notes in the little black notebook he had produced from somewhere. “We seem to be doing decent speed. What were you saying there?”

“I will die a happy woman if I never have to see those reins move in the air ever again.”

“I'm sure that can be arranged. I'll tell you when to close your eyes, would that be OK?”

“Malfoy!” In a way, it was helpful when he was being exasperating, because it distracted her from dwelling on how easy it was to plummet to her death. 

He held his hands up. “Joking, just joking. Although we do need to swap sometimes, for safety purposes.”

Hermione could dwell on that, or find something else to focus her mind on. She chose to go on the attack instead. “How convenient to have a house-elf running interference for you. Imagine if your family had to pay the going rate for staff – do you think you would still be rich then?”

Malfoy shrugged and made the top of the carriage transparent again. “Topsy, Miss Granger is concerned you're working for free. Can you tell her?”

“Topsy gets paid, Miss. Topsy gets a foal!” The house-elf flicked the reins and one of the horses whinnied.

“Good for you,” Hermione mumbled, and the roof became solid again. She turned back towards Malfoy. “What about Topsy’s colleagues, do they get paid?”

“They won’t accept any payment. I've tried.” He spread his well-manicured hands in front of him. It was a mercy Topsy was handling the reins at the moment, or they may end up in Wales instead.

“How convenient,” Hermione said, not bothering to hide her sneer.

“Listen, Granger, what do you want me to do? Tie them down and force it into their pockets?” Malfoy looked so earnest a fool could tell he was up to something.

“I expect you to try harder, to find something they actually want, like Topsy.”

“Maybe they don’t want anything. It’s just the way they are made,” he explained as if she had never heard that asinine attempt to justify the arrangement before.

“Or maybe it is because they’ve been told nothing is all they deserve for so long that they internalised the message. I’ve been on the receiving end of people telling me what to do and not to do too many times not to recognise how it works.” She was glaring at Malfoy, who no longer had the excuse of looking at the horses.

He did not seem too bothered. “But you didn't listen. Obviously,” he pointed out.

She took a long, heaving breath. It was either that or scream with frustration, and the latter would probably spook the horses. “That is like saying running a marathon requires no effort, just because the winner made it.”

He politely waited for her to make sense.

“Oh for God's sake,” she sighed. “A very long race, then. The annual Swedish broom race. Just because one of the participants made it to the finishing line does not mean no effort was required in getting there. Surely you can understand that? Somehow I managed to ignore everyone putting me down because I was a Muggle-born, but think of all those who may have achieved things but didn't.”

She looked at the green stripe at the horizon without seeing it.

“Great things, but they never got there because they were told it as was not for people like them.” She laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Ironically, I was born with a healthy sense of privilege in the Muggle world – maybe that's how I could stand up to it. If I'd been working class, I don't think it would have seemed so obviously unfair. Being pig-stubborn probably helped too, but that's not necessarily always an –”

“I did not make it.” Malfoy spoke so quietly she wasn't sure she had heard it right.

“What?”

“I didn't make the finishing line. It's questionable I even made it to the starting point of the race, but that's stretching the metaphor so thin it'll reach all the way to Scotland from here.”

Hermione did not know what to say, or even where to begin saying it. Sputtering outrage fuelled her on, though, and the words followed soon enough. “I can't believe... That's the complete opposite of what I was talking about – You cannot seriously compare yourself to Muggle-borns and house-elves!”

She banged the sky blue upholstered silk in her agitation, only to have her hand bounce back up again. Damn those pinching diamond shoes indeed.

“No, of course I can't,” Malfoy agreed in that too-quiet voice. “Or rather, only when it comes to one thing: I was also told who to be and what to do. Unfortunately, I listened. The parallel struck me for the first time.”

“Oh,” was the best Hermione could come up with in response.

There did not seem to be much to say after that, so she pulled out her book instead.

When the narrow strip of green at the horizon had become a discernible coastline, it occurred to her that nothing had been decided. Just like travelling with her parents, really – interminable discussions when no one ever made up their mind.

Biting her bottom lip, she considered whether she should say something about their previous conversation. Malfoy had been studiously quiet since, apart from exchanging the reins with Topsy once or twice. Would it be more awkward to acknowledge that it was awkward?

Yes, she decided with relief. There was a reason people were being awfully British about this sort of thing, and that was because it worked.

Now she just had to sound natural.

“Malfoy?” It came out more like a growl. Hermione tried to clear her throat but ended up with a coughing fit. By the time she had caught her breath again, cheeks aflame, any previous embarrassment had been forgotten in favour of a brand new complement.

“Water?” Malfoy produced a clear bottle of something, and Hermione decided to take him on faith.

Well, that and she had sent Harry a note to tell him where they were going before leaving the Ministry. Hopefully, any dastardly plans by Malfoy would take into account that she wasn't completely stupid.

“Thank you.” Breathing freely was very nice. “So what do we do when we get to Ireland? Bearing in mind that I need to be in central Dublin in –“ she tilted her head to check his Muggle watch “– six and a half hours. And we'd better fit in some lunch, too. I'm starving.”

“I'm terribly sorry – naturally I made sure we have some supplies, but I completely forgot...” He Summoned a basket with daintily wrapped sandwiches and more water bottles. Made of crystal and embossed with the Malfoy crest.

“Please tell me you didn't spend all night making this. You really shouldn't have. Oh, look, the cucumber is sliced so thin you can barely see it – however did you manage that?”

There was a trace of pink on Malfoy's cheeks, but he did not buckle down. “It is food. If you don't like where it comes from, I'm afraid you'll have to make your own arrangements.”

“And so I will – once I'm not stuck miles up in the air with no options other than a squashed Mars bar at the bottom of my handbag. Thank you very much.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly. “Your efforts are very much appreciated.”

“You are most welcome,” he said formally, not a smirk in sight.

She had noticed it before – he really couldn't stop himself from sounding like she was his honoured guest sometimes. Unless he was winding her up for his own amusement. She really didn't think so – Malfoy was much too fond of his own wit not to go in for the kill if he spotted a chance.

“So what do we do when we land, then,” she asked again, once the sandwiches had been disposed of. The cucumber was rather good.

“I believe the question is rather where to land. I think the best spot would be just outside a village – if you think they'd sell maps in a village shop?”

“Almost definitely. As long as we pick a fairly big one.”All gas stations would have maps, wouldn't they?

“Then we could just choose a deserted bit of road, land, and disguise the wings,” Malfoy said as if that finished the matter.

Hermione had discovered some promising square packets at the bottom of the basket, so her question was a bit muffled. “Then what?”

“Then we get Topsy to hide inside the carriage and drive the team to the village, of course.”

She burst out laughing, which sent his eyebrows off to the skies.

“It's what my grandfather used to do – I don't see what's so funny about that.” He did not sound pleased with her mirth.

“Malfoy, Muggles haven't used horses for transport for the last fifty years, at least. The sight of four thoroughbreds trotting into the village – Well, I'd rather fly under the radar.”

“Under the what?”

She considered explaining and decided it would take too long. “Let's just be discreet. I realise it doesn't come naturally to you, but you can try.”

To her great relief, he nodded.

“The horses will need to drink, though,” he pointed out.

“OK. So we're looking for a small – but not too small – village with a clean source of water and a landing strip of some description nearby. I assume you have no idea where exactly it is you need to go?”

Malfoy clicked his fingers and a strip of parchment appeared. “The Laurels, Knockaroo, County L-a-o-i-s, however you're supposed to pronounce that.”

“La-oi-ss, maybe?” Hermione suggested. Hopefully, the locals had heard of it. “Any idea where Laois is, then?”

Malfoy predictably shook his head.

“Well, then, we'll just stay close to Dublin then. Close-ish,” she amended. Winged horses were a lot less convenient than she had thought. Another complication occurred to her. “Won't the horses need to eat, too?”

“They eat grass, Granger. Considering it's called the Emerald Isle, I think they have grass in Ireland.”

“Oh.” It had been a quite long time since she read _Black Beauty_ and cried all night when Ginger died.


	3. On The Road

“You'd like to rent a car?” The youth looked suspicious. Hermione could hardly blame him – normal people didn't turn up in the middle of nowhere looking for transport.

“Yes, please.” She smiled, trying to look reassuring, but judging from the way he flinched it wasn't very successful.

“What's this, Granger? We have to buy one of these!”

Malfoy had found the toy section and homed in on the light-up toys, which probably wouldn't have come within fifteen miles of his nursery at Malfoy Manor when he was a child. He was making up for lost time, gleefully shooting arrows all over the shop.

Hermione closed her eyes momentarily, exasperation getting the better of her. “I'm sorry. He doesn't get out much.”

“I can see that,” the teenager in front of her mumbled.

“So what about a car, then?” She tried a reassuring smile.

The youth flinched slightly but obliged by starting to tap on the ancient computer next to the cash register.

Then he was hit in the forehead by a neon-coloured plastic arrow from the Nerf gun Draco had found on the top shelf.

* * *

“You can't just bribe people to put up with your stunts!” Hermione was keeping her eyes on the road as if it would slip into the sea if she blinked. It was either that or hit Malfoy over the head with the map she'd purchased at the gas station once she had stopped apologising, and she didn't rate her chances finding another car to rent if she crashed this one.

“Why not? He looked pretty happy, I thought.” Malfoy cradled the Nerf gun as if he was afraid someone was going to take it from him. He wasn't entirely stupid, to give him his due.

“That's because we were leaving!” There was no need to add 'You idiot'. The words hung in the air, unspoken but obvious to everyone.

Or so she thought.

“He got fifty pounds for himself, plus more business that he'll see all day if the lack of other customers is anything to go by. I don't think he's complaining, but suit yourself. Where are we going now, then?”

Hermione's glare would have scared small children, but the road remained impassive. “Laois, of course. Do you know how to read a map?”

Malfoy was already unfolding it, elbows and map spreading into the driver's seat. “Do dragons shit in the woods?”

* * *

There was a field in front of them. There was a field on the left-hand side, and – sticking to the theme and reinforcing the sense of cosmic symmetry – there was also a field on the right.

Hermione hadn't looked behind her, but there would no prizes for guessing there was a bloody field there too, given they hadn't seen anything else for miles.

“Describe to me again how we are just about to arrive in Portlaoise, will you?” she asked Malfoy, leaning against the side of the car.

He was still in the passenger's seat, frantically scanning the map as if it held the answer to all their questions.

Which it did, provided Draco had paid attention at the beginning of their drive. He had not, as the argument previously had revealed, so their current location was anyone's guess. Unfortunately, the fields were populated only by cows, so the locals were little help.

Hermione was tired, hungry and increasingly aware that she only had a few hours to get to her lecture in Dublin.

All of these points had been expressed to Draco at length, so she did not feel the need to get into them again. She just slipped back into the driver's seat and started the engine.

“What?” He looked up, hair ruffled and the previously starched shirt full of wrinkles.

“I'm making an executive decision.”

He looked hopeful. “Can we use a Point Me charm? Finally!”

“No magic! Besides, what help would it be if we don't know what direction we're supposed to be heading?”

“We could get lost in a more orderly fashion?”

Despite herself, she smiled. “Attractive as it sounds, I need to get to Dublin before it gets too late. My lecture starts at eight.”

“Your lecture.” The corners of his grey eyes crinkled. “I thought you had delivered already. 'Map-reading, And The Evils Of Not Paying Attention'.”

Hermione quickly looked to the road so he wouldn't catch her smiling. “I'm gearing up for a repeat performance. Different subject matter, though.”

“Yes, about that – you never told me what you're doing. A lecture, right? On what?”

He walked into that one.

“'Misadventures In Map-Reading', what else?”

“Seriously, though – what is it about? You can tell me,” he tried.

“Or I can not.” Hermione scanned the road ahead. Fields, fields, more fields. “Why don't you look for signposts instead?”

“I could, but there are only fields around here. If you hadn't noticed.” He settled down with the map again.

* * *

“BUS!”

“Fucking Merlin, Granger, I almost thought we were under attack there!” Malfoy was panting, trying to push his wand back down his sleeve again. Waving it around was not a good look if you were trying to stay inconspicuous, as she had told him several times already.

“There's a bus over there!” Hermione elaborated, feeling he wasn't getting her point.

“Woohoo, they have buses in Ireland. Muggle buses, even. Well done,” Malfoy said, proving it.

“We can follow it – presumably its final destination is not a field, but a village or something, and then we can figure out how to get to Dublin.” And get something to eat, she added to herself – the Mars bar had been consumed hours ago.

Malfoy sat up, his back as straight as an arrow: “Follow that bus!”

* * *

“It's taking an awfully long time. Can't you drive any faster?” Malfoy had rolled down the window and was trying to crane his neck to see in front of the mile-long queue of cars ahead of them. 

“Yes, for about 1.64 milliseconds before I crash into the car in front of us. Want me to try?” Hermione pushed her foot down slightly, revving the engine. 

Fortunately, they had stopped to buy some sandwiches once they had seen the signposts for Dublin, or there would have been bloodshed by now.

Malfoy hastily pulled his head in again. “I think they're starting to move up there. We're almost in Kildare now, I'm sure it'll be quicker from there onwards.” He glanced at the lane next to them, as stationary as they were. “Couldn't be slower, anyway,” he muttered. 

* * *

If time could have gone backwards on the way to Dublin, it would have. As it was, they eventually found a hotel within walking distance of Trinity College, where Hermione was delivering her lecture.

She was not getting into a car voluntarily anytime soon.

Just as the prospect of a shower and a change of clothes almost had materialised, it was snatched away again when the receptionist asked for a credit card.

Hermione had a Muggle credit card, of course – in her desk drawer back in London. The sinking feeling in her stomach when she calculated how to pay for a night in a hotel she never had envisaged ensured it would henceforth be stored in the successor to her beaded bag, but that didn't help them now.

She turned to Malfoy: “Please tell me you have some money left – you said I didn't need to bring any cash!”

Hermione didn't give a toss about pleading with him anymore, not with the prospect of no hotel room, no shower and no hope of getting ready for her speech on time.

“Sure, I've got lots – look!” Malfoy said, pulling a wad of notes out of his pocket. The familiar face of the Queen looked up at them.

“They're pound sterling, you – you absolute idiot! Ireland hasn't had the same currency as us since the Twenties, what with being an independent country and all. Then they got the euro, but I guess you missed that memo, too. Just because wizards don't bother keeping up with the times doesn't mean history doesn't happen, you know.” Hermione had to stop for a long breath that sounded more like a sob than she cared for.

“Relax, Hermione.” He put his hand on her arm, the other one diving back into his pocket to pull out another bundle of notes, this time with the familiar slightly too-clean look of euros.

“Of course I got the right currency. I've got one of the plasticky things too, if we need it. I have people looking after this sort of thing for me, you know,” he said with a wry smile. “Please don't be distressed. It was just a joke. I know you don't think I have a clue about the M- the real world, so I thought I'd make a joke of out of it. It was a terrible idea, and I apologise.” His hand was still resting on her arm.

“Draco Malfoy, if you ever try that on me again I will –” she said weakly, only to be interrupted:

“Do something terrifying, no doubt. No need to tell me what it is, I have enough nightmares already, thank you very much. Shall I pay the nice man and then we have half an hour to relax before we need to leave?”

* * *

She was too tired to notice the 'we' until she already was in the shower. Surely he couldn't be serious?

* * *

He was. Dressed in a fresh suit, he was waiting for her in the lobby looking disturbingly perky for a man who had travelled so far. Hermione smoothed down her black Hobbs dress, well aware it had not been in the vicinity of an iron those past three years.

“Ready? You forgot to tell me where we're going, by the way.” He smiled at her, in a way that made it clear he knew perfectly well it had been a deliberate decision on her part.

Hermione made her choice in the blink of an eye: he may be a Malfoy and she could live to regret it, but what was the worst that could happen if she went along with it? After the day they'd had, it somehow seemed worse to give him the cold shoulder.

“Trinity College. The Muggle section, so I'm glad you've dressed the part.”

He did look quite nice in a suit, she noticed as they walked down a street lined by Georgian redbricks. There was barely anyone about (they were probably stuck in a traffic jam trying to get home), so she made sure to check the hotel-issued map.

“Are you sure?” Draco eyed the utilitarian-looking buildings with distaste, but the handwritten additional directions on the map were clear. There was a hut for a security guard, but no one was inside and the lights were out. It was getting dark, and the alley did not look very appealing (as opposed to Draco's behind in those suit trousers, but Hermione was definitely not going to acknowledge that it had even occurred to her). 

“Well, it says 'Trinity College Dublin Facilities Department – no trespassing', so I suppose...” she said dubiously (“Don't think about his arse, don't think about his arse, definitely don't think about his arse”). 

“Looks like the arse-end of nowhere to me, but- Are you all right?“ He took one look at Hermione and started slapping her back vigorously until she had wheezed and coughed and spluttered back to normal.

“I'm fine,” she sighed once she could speak coherently again. “I will just – just check the map again, will I?”

Cheating a little bit couldn't hurt, could it? She flicked her fingers to generate a fraction of the light from a proper Lumos and squinted at it. “It definitely says Lincoln Place –“

“Hail ye of wizarding stock, for only mages can these doors unlock!” a stentorian voice rumbled and she dropped the map.

Draco had his wand out as quickly as she did, and they ended up back to back in a fraction of a second.

“Don't fear us noble guardians of the gate  
State your business, but speak straight.  
These doors stay closed to lies and deceit  
The baseness of man remains in the street.  
Beyond those gates lie discernment and wit  
So speak, stranger – get on with it!”

They looked at each other.

“This reminds me of Hogwarts,” Draco said through the corner of his mouth. “Did you ever try to sneak into the Ravenclaw common room?”

“For some reason, my application to join the Inquisitorial Squad was turned down, so no – I didn't.” It just slipped out, the same way she would have spoken to Ron or Harry (who of course had actually got into the Ravenclaw common room). She wasn't entirely sure he would accept it in the spirit it was intended, but he did.

“It was in Third year, for your information, and it was for a dare. Turned out defining what nothing is was a little too advanced for fourteen-year-old me, so I think you'd better take this one.”

Hermione faced the gate, squaring her shoulders. Honestly, one would think they would warn visitors beforehand! Then she remembered she had informed the magical faculty she would arrive by Portkey. Perhaps it wasn't their fault.

Clearing her throat, she did her best: “Oh, mighty guardians of the gate: I'm Hermione Granger and this is my companion Draco Malfoy. Er – my errand is to deliver a lecture for the college to enjoy.“

Ignoring the muffled snickers from Draco, she stared straight ahead as the gates creaked open.

“You do it yourself the next time if you're so good at coming up with rhymes on the hoof!” She strode forward briskly, but of course he had no difficulties keeping up with his longer legs.

“The trick is to avoid rhyming with Malfoy. Also, the two parts are supposed to be roughly the same length.”

“Well done. You've earned yourself a go on the way out.”

The darkness in the lane would have been disconcerting, had a row of green lights not appeared to light their way. Hermione tried to remember if there had been any directions enclosed in her welcome pack, but she had only skim-read it before leaving it on her desk at home.

It would have been pretty bloody handy if Accio had worked across the Irish Sea right about now, as she stared at a dimly lit courtyard without any idea of where to go next.

“Never volunteer for anything – old Slytherin saying. Nevertheless, perhaps I might be persuaded to make an attempt.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Knock yourself out.”

He cleared his throat, never one to turn down an opportunity to add a dramatic touch. “Oh, wise spirits of the college, light our way – haste is needed, pray do not delay!”

A veritable fountain of magical lights erupted, directing them to a building with fine Elizabethan brickwork and a large wooden door, ajar.

“You spent all the time since we were standing at the gates trying to figure out good rhymes for 'way', didn't you?” Hermione mumbled as they reached the door.

She crossed the threshold and promptly forgot all about Draco's pompous rhymes.

'The Connotations of Cats: Crones, Spinsters and Crazy Cat Ladies' was plastered in foot-high letters on a large banner, with her name awarded a separate one which was even larger.

There was only one way to get through this.

Hermione ignored the snickering behind her back and sailed forward, hands spread wide to greet the Head of the School of Magic. Mary McDonnell seemed a very ordinary name for an extraordinary witch, and there was nothing commonplace about the research being carried out here.

Not that the ignoramus behind her would know much about the cutting edge of Muggle Studies, but then he might learn something tonight.

* * *

Maddeningly, it did Hermione no harm at all to be accompanied by a Malfoy – they both found themselves in the middle of a crowd after the lecture. It was only by standing on her tippy toes and shoot sparks with her wand Hermione managed to alert Draco to the fact she was leaving.

Attempting to leave, rather – it was another twenty minutes before they made it through the front door.

The courtyard was a welcome pool of silence, the distant sound of traffic and an occasional burst of sirens reminding them they were in the middle of a city.

“So Muggle men felt threatened by the prospect of women possessing knowledge they did not? How retrograde of them,” Draco drawled.

Hermione snorted. “I've never come across that attitude amongst wizards. Completely unheard of.”

“Fair point. I imagine there must be less of it, however, thanks to the equalising power of magic,” he said mildly.

“There is a Muggle saying: 'Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them'. I find it quite insightful.”

“I'd say something about my Aunt Bella now, but I'd probably get it wrong so I shall refrain.”

Hermione's laughter echoed between the stone walls of the passage they were strolling down. The campus was a pleasant riddle to solve now, the high of speaking to so many people still bubbling inside her.

“Want to go for a drink?” It slipped out without a conscious decision on her part.

“Be a shame not to, while we're here. Good thing you have that map – I don't think it works so well to ask for guidance outside the gates.”

“Oh, guardians of the pub –“

“Lead me to thy hub?” They dissolved in laughter, not noticing the flickers of magical light that rose hopefully only to die down again.


	4. Lead Me To Your Door

“Beeping that horn at me may have caused irreparable damage.” Draco was wearing sunglasses and moved as little as possible as he slipped into the passenger seat.

“Sore head?” Hermione had little sympathy, given that she had walked to retrieve the car and then returned to pick him up. Not to mention that she had stopped drinking early, while Draco had kept going. And going.

He groaned. “My long-held belief that you can't actually get hungover from Muggle alcohol has been proven incorrect.”

“That explains a lot. Mind you, it doesn't reflect that well on your intellect – why did you think the day after would be different when the immediate effect of Muggle and magical alcohol is the same?”

“If you think I have enough brain cells left to explain that you are sorely mistaken. Could you drive a little slower? Those bumps nearly finished me off.” He clutched his forehead in his hands

Hermione pushed down the accelerator. “The sooner we get your little errand done, the better – don't you agree?”

If she focused on the roar of the engine, it drowned out the faint groans. Almost.

* * *

A misty rain was turning the fields and hedgerows hazy. Hermione watched the road like a hawk, waiting for the right exit. The receptionist at their hotel had been helpful, to a degree – they would at least get in the general vicinity of Knockaroo before being left to their own devices.

It did exist, a tiny dot on the map – surely it couldn't be very difficult to find The Laurels, do whatever it was Draco needed to do there, and then drive back to the garage near the carriage?

Even if Topsy had grown tired of waiting for them, she could easily catch a flight back from Dublin.

This was only a formality.

She was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel so loudly it must have woken Draco.

“Where are we?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “The Outer Hebrides, where did you think we were going? We're in County Laois, which apparently is pronounced Leash.”

“Why didn't they just spell it that way, then?” He yawned and stretched his arms up in the air. They didn't get very far.

Hermione knew the answer to that one. “They did. In Irish.”

“Insert something about eight hundred years of oppression?”

“If you must. I'm trying to find the right exit – it would be helpful if you could try and follow along on the map once we come off the motorway.” Up until now, each exit had been numbered in ascending order and local places of interest indicated on the signs.

Hermione was taking nothing for granted, however – until she saw exit 18, she would not take it for granted.

“I take it the big red X indicates where we're going?” Draco bent his head over the map.

“Roughly. The receptionist had a bigger scale map, but she wouldn't sell it to me.”

“You clearly didn't offer her enough, then.”

“As you were still asleep, my means were somewhat limited. Even then, we still have to pay for the car, so please don't offer a king's ransom to anyone for lending you a pen or something.”

“I'll just have to charm people with my lovely personality instead,” he drawled, smiling widely at her in a way she never had seen him do before. The day seemed a little less dreary all of a sudden, the grey edges of the world illuminating.

“I hope you have a plan C,” she mumbled, mostly to have something to say. For the first time she saw his mother's uncompromising beauty in his face – there was only time for a quick glance before she looked back at the wet road, but it could not be unseen once she had noticed it.

The next time she looked back, almost against her will, his face had changed ever so slightly. The beautiful Black mask had gone. In its place was the face of a man with smiling grey eyes and a softness around his mouth.

A man she knew.

Hermione let her shoulders drop and let out a breath, curiously unwilling to acknowledge to herself why it mattered if Draco Malfoy was putting on a mask or not.

They were carrying out a mutually beneficial business arrangement, that was all.

One that was shortly to be concluded, as soon as they reached the wretched exit 18 –

“Fuck!”

“I don't remember you swearing this much at Hogwarts. Is it a Department of Magical Law Enforcement thing – do you have a daily quota or something?” Draco asked with an air of great interested.

“I missed the bloody exit!” Hermione could see the back of the huge sign for exit 18 disappear in the rearview mirror.

“Oh. If only the Muggles would signpost those things properly. What do we do now, then?”

* * *

What they did next involved a fruitless search for secondary roads on the map (mostly by Draco), one illegal U-turn (carried out by Hermione) and rather a lot of bickering, before they finally could take the exit from the other direction.

Knockaroo turned out to be suspiciously easy to locate. It consisted of a few bungalows and a church at a crossroads. Draco insisted on inspecting each house on foot before conceding none of them was called The Laurels.

Hermione waited in the car, expecting the local police to show up anytime.

Leaning in through the window, Draco displayed his best asset to all of Knockaroo. “Nope.”

“Now, what?”

“Your move, I believe – this was the quo in exchange for my quid.” He stood up, depriving any watching eyes of a continuation of the show.

“Mine? I got us here!”

“Not quite all the way, I believe.”

“Get into the car.” She wasn't going to have this discussion in the open, no matter how devoid the place seemed of Muggles at the moment.

“With pleasure.”

“Is the place we're looking for in any way magical? At all?” The obvious follow-up question sat expectantly in the air – what in the name of Merlin could Draco Malfoy be wanting from a Muggle?

He raised one eyebrow. “Obviously it's somewhat magical, given that I was going to travel there by Portkey.”

“A wise witch never assumes anything. It may not have been your final destination.” Counter that, Mr Supercilious Eyebrow.

“It was, however. Or is, provided you can find it.”

“Me, again? Very well, then – watch this.” Hermione got out of the car and made for one of the three bungalows, before turning around again. “Who is it you're trying to find?”

“Mr Waddlesworth.”

“Mr who?”

“Wallace Waddlesworth.” Draco did not seem to notice Hermione look at him with great suspicion.

“That's good to know – it would have been very inconvenient to have been directed to his brother, for example,” she said drily.

He looked at her as if she had two heads. “What brother?”

“Never mind,” she sighed. To Draco Malfoy, it probably didn't even register as an unusual name, never mind being very, very English. “You just sit there, I'm going in.”

Draco may have the edge on putting on the charm, but Hermione was not about to let him loose on the local Muggle population if she could help it. She arranged her lips in her best variation on his suave smile before the door opened and revealed an elderly lady who barely reached Hermione's chin.

“Are you all right there, pet?” she asked with a quavering voice, but there was strength in her bony hand as she led Hermione into her sitting room.

* * *

“Where have you been? I was about to go in wands blazing!” Draco's hair was all over the place, as if he had been pulling his hands through it. He got out of the car faster than a Niffler who had spotted a silver spoon once Hermione re-emerged from Mrs Connelly's house.

“She insisted on offering me a cup of tea. I was eating a scone before we even got into who lives around here – you have to be polite, you know.”

Draco eyed her somewhat dishevelled dress suspiciously. “That doesn't look like scone crumbs to me.”

“I could hardly turn down a slice of fruit cake, could I?” Hermione quickly dusted them off her skirt.

“What about me, languishing in the car? I was waiting so long I could have atrophied here!” He had regained his composure quickly, but it was hard to forget how agitated he had been when she first came out.

“Don't worry. Mrs Connelly wouldn't let you go without. Even when I explained you're contagious.” She passed him a parcel of kitchen foil.

“Contagious with what?” He tore into a thick slice of fruitcake like he hadn't seen food for a fortnight.

“I didn't care to say,” Hermione said primly. “Do you want to find Mr Waddlesworth's place or not?”

“Do you know where it is?”

Those crumbs really got everywhere, Hermione thought as she brushed them aside. “It turns out Mr Waddlesworth lives on the other side of Knockaroo. Across the bog.”

“Splendid.”

“We'd better start walking, then.” Hermione reached for her handbag.

“What do you mean, walk?”

“Wasn't it lucky you got some sustenance first? You can see his house from her back window, that's why I was in there so long,” she explained.

“That, and stuffing yourself.”

Even if he hadn't seen his smile, she would have known he was joking. It was nice being smiled at by Draco Malfoy, though.

She preferred not to dwell on that thought. “You're one to talk. Come on, it's this way.”

* * *

“We've been walking for a few minutes now, Hermione.” Splash, splash, went his feet, exquisitely clad in dragonhide boots. Hermione's runners had been soaked since step number three on the path across the moor – no, bog, Mrs Connelly had called it.

“Almost there.”

Draco had insisted on walking first, which meant she had a first-rate view of his arse. This was what Ron called a win-win situation if it hadn't been for her wet feet.

“It's barely getting any closer, Hermione. It was only a few hundred yards at the beginning, it seems further away now.”

She started paying attention. “You think there's magic at work?”

“Unless there is a special Muggle trick to make things appear further away than they really are, yes.” He stopped without warning, so she walked right into him.

“Smooth, Draco,” she told his back.

He turned to the side, grabbing her arm. “Shh!”

They stood side by side, with Hermione straining to hear whatever had made Draco stop.

Then she heard it: a keening sound, on the edge of the wind. Looking out over the bog, a silver mist was rising from the dark pools of water in between the reeds.

“Run!” She took his hand and pulled him with her, heedless of puddles or squelching shoes. “Don't take out your wand, it won't help – just run!”

He stayed behind her, despite his longer legs, a comforting presence as darkness gathered around them.

The wall of Mr Waddlesworth's house seemed as distant as ever. There was no way she was going to look behind, but Hermione knew that Mrs Connelly's house would be equally far away if she turned around.

She may not know exactly what was going on, but it far more serious than being lured out into the bog by a Hinkypunk. Something was out there and it wanted to get them – the air almost pulsated with its malevolent intent.

“Do you trust me?” Draco breathed in her ear.

There was only one answer to that: “Yes.”

“Close your eyes and follow me.” He pushed in front of her, placing her hands on his shoulders.

The wind shrieked and tore at her jacket, and the keening sound grew stronger. Her back prickled and she had to cling tightly to Draco to avoid pulling her wand out and turn around to face whatever was behind them.

Draco walked achingly slowly, and she had to stop herself from talking several times. She trusted him, and that was that: they could argue later.

He finally stumbled into a standstill, and Hermione crashed into him a second time. This time, he wrapped her in his arms.

“You can open your eyes now – we made it!”

They were facing a wonderfully solid wall, perched on a strip of grass at the edge of the bog. The darkness had receded and there was silence – one could even hear a bird sing.

“What was that?”

“The ancient bogs of Ireland have many secrets,” a man said on the other side of the wall, and they both jumped. “I don't know what ails this one, but it does not like magic or those who use it.”

“Mr Waddlesworth, I presume?” Hermione asked weakly.

The wall melted away to reveal a rotund man with a large moustache and blue eyes, holding a pair of gardening shears. “Indeed. And who may you be – oh. No need to introduce yourself, Miss Granger. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Before we get into that, what just happened out there?” Draco asked.

“As I said, the bog reacts adversely to wizards – I've never hung around long enough to find out why. Usually, I just walk the long way around.

“But Mrs Connelly said –“ Hermione interjected.

“Bridget Connelly is a lovely woman, but she's about as magical as a Ford Focus. Muggles have no problems taking that path, it's only wizards and witches that set it off. Now, may I ask what brought you here?”

“My name is Draco Malfoy – I believe you were expecting me?” Draco stretched out his hand.

“Oh, yes, let me show you – “

Hermione didn't hear a thing after that. The most wonderful sight she had ever seen had just appeared in a basket next to the sunlit wall, and she got busy burying her hands in soft Kneazle fur and making cooing noises.

“Aren't you the prettiest – Come here, let me hold you! Oh, what a good boy you are!”

She was vaguely aware of negotiations going on behind her but paid it no heed. Her part of the bargain had been fulfilled, so she was going to take full advantage of the opportunity to rub round little kitten bellies.

A shadow made her look up, straight into Draco's impossibly soft eyes.

“I take it you approve of my errand?”

“You're not taking one home today, are you?” Her hands stayed among the kittens.

He crouched down to her level, carefully stroking the back of the smallest kitten, the one with the green eyes. “I'm just putting in my claim. Mr Waddlesworth insists on meeting potential owners beforehand.”

“Good. They'll be ready to be away from their mother in a few weeks.”

He weighed back on his heels, taking a deep breath before he spoke: “Would you like to come with me, and pick out one for yourself?” 

Hermione stared at him. “That's like asking Hagrid if he'd like a Blast-Ended Skrewt – of course I would!” 

One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Perhaps I went about this the wrong way. The kitten is a foregone conclusion. Forget about the kitten, it's yours already. What would you say to meeting me again entirely without kittens, in a non-feline capacity?” 

He looked nervous and hopeful and like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop at any second. 

“I would say that I can think of nothing I would rather do. As long as it doesn't involve flying,” she hastened to clarify. 

“Or cars.”

“Or bogs.” She shivered, and he wrapped his arm around her, gingerly at first and then holding her close. 

“Just you and me,” he whispered in her ear, and she couldn't think of anything she would rather do. 

Although all that and a kitten would be even better – perhaps she could suggest it for their second date. 

****

THE END


End file.
